


On the Fourth of July

by Victorea_Ryan_Meadow



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff, It's England so what do you expect?, Slight Character Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:06:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25058176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Victorea_Ryan_Meadow/pseuds/Victorea_Ryan_Meadow
Summary: It's the Fourth of July, and England does some reminiscing, much to his great dislike. One-shot. Complete. Happy Fourth of July to my fellow American peeps.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	On the Fourth of July

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Hetalia, and I do not profit financially from writing this story.

England paced the length of his room, agitated. Today wasn’t necessarily a good day for him, the fourth of July. It was on this date over two hundred years prior, America declared his independence from him, the fighting lasting for several long years. He’d wanted to be a country, a great nation like he, and it’d terrified England like nothing else ever had. The leaders of his country didn’t understand his position. To them, America (and his younger brother Canada) were nothing more than a place to gather resources, to exploit and gain an advantage over other nations. They never saw the embodiment as a small child. They hadn’t witnessed how quickly America had _grown_ , and they’d failed to see that they would have problems with the people colonizing the area. America knew no fear. He ran headlong towards things and creatures that were dangerous. Because England couldn’t always be there with him, he grew _wild_ , reckless even. He didn’t _have_ to listen to the rules set forth to him by England and his nation’s leaders. There wasn’t anyone to enforce, truly enforce those rules on the youngster. When he’d decided he wanted his freedom, he fought for it, fought for it hard though it cost him a great deal, and he’d turned to France for help.

He paused in his pacing for a moment and glanced out the window. Sun filtered in, bathing everything in a warm glow. Today, America was celebrating his victories, both old and new, and his birth as a nation. He celebrated his freedom, something he’d earned after years of fighting. There would be parades in many cities, fireworks lighting up the night skies . . . people would be grilling food and spending time with their families, either at pools, their homes, or the beach. Today marked a milestone for America – he’d declared himself an independent nation two-hundred forty-four* years ago, and he’d only become stronger.

‘They were fools,’ England thought, darkness in his heart and covering his soul. ‘They thought they’d be able to swoop in and reclaim him and everything within his lands when he failed . . . They were certain he’d fail . . . They were wrong.’

His fearlessness had proven to be America’s strongest point. He’d continued to grow. He’d developed crazy ideas, but most of all . . . he’d remained free. No one had been able to claim him or reclaim him.

‘The stupid git . . . the entire lot of them. They didn’t want to believe it.’

Of course, America’s freedom _had_ come at a price. Most of the nations tolerated him, but they didn’t really care for him or like him all that much. He was a valuable ally in times of crises. It galled England to know it had been because of America’s eventual intervention in both World Wars that he hadn’t been subjugated to Germany and his leaders’ whims.

‘I suppose that I should call . . . wish him a happy birthday . . . if he’ll even hear the bloody phone ringing.’

England frowned, but he didn’t move from his spot. He knew he should do something, make the call, and get it over with before the day ended. The git’s birthday only came once a year. Still, he didn’t move, didn’t reach for his phone, and he couldn’t understand why.

‘I miss him,’ he realized, startled by the revelation as it came to him. ‘I actually _miss_ the twat. But _why_ would I miss him? He doesn’t need me, and I certainly don’t need him . . .’

England folded his arms in front of him, as if he wanted to try and keep himself together.

_“England!”_

Such a sweet voice . . . he’d been a sweet child . . .

_“For you, big brother . . .”_

_Small hands held forth a bouquet of long grass and white wild flowers. America gazed up at him, love in his eyes and an unassuming smile on his face. Stunned, England could only stare. In all his years as a nation, no one had been nice to him. No one had given him anything nice. They chose to mock him for his small stature. They chose to humiliate him by telling him ridiculous things and tempt him into ridiculous trends . . . they tried to make him look a fool, and it only angered him, fueled his desire to prove them wrong, and to become the strongest nation in the world. He wanted to shine, to outdo everyone and to do what even the Holy Roman Empire couldn’t do . . . unite this world. To have this fledgling nation look up at him with eyes so pure and so innocent and so . . ._ trusting _. . . England didn’t know what to do. It seemed too surreal, too good to be true, and he waited for the moment one of his older brothers pinched him awake. He wanted to stay in this moment. Forever._

_“F-f-for me?” he managed to squeak out. America nodded and smiled. He held the flowers and grass higher._

_“Uh-huh.” Those bright blue eyes continued to gaze up at him, so pure and so innocent._

_Still stunned, he took the proffered flowers, and America’s smile grew wider. Laughing, he dashed off, heading for the long grass. England watched him go, looked at the flowers, and he smiled. It felt so nice to be liked, to be respected and admired and_ loved _. He lifted his head and watched America as he leapt about in the grass, chasing butterflies._

A tear stole down England’s cheek. He missed the child. He missed having someone look up to him, to adore him, and to simply _trust_ him. He wanted to have that brotherly relationship he’d missed out on in his life. When America declared his independence and _fought_ him for it, England knew he’d lost the one thing in his life that had been the most precious to him. Things between them would never be the same.

“Happy birthday, you git,” England murmured. “I hope you have a wonderful time today.”

**Author's Note:**

> * - When I originally wrote this, America had only been 236 years old. I updated accordingly.
> 
> Author’s Notes: Okay, so I wrote this one-shot eight flipping years ago and totally forgot to upload it accordingly. Either that or it was late, and then I totally still forgot about it. My bad. 
> 
> I’m not going to get too terribly political on this. I’m not adjusting for current politics and all that. That’s going to be for another story, one I hopefully can finish and post this year as well. My goal for the last year and a half has been to work on in-progress stories rather than starting something new. That’s including Dark Intentions and another Hetalia fic I began before life happened.
> 
> I will say this: I look forward to celebrating America’s 250th birthday in six years. I hope it’s one hell of a celebration!
> 
> At any rate, if you wish to leave me a review, it’s greatly appreciated! I do reply to reviews. Thanks in advance for reading!
> 
> Happy Fourth of July, my peeps!!


End file.
